Hermione’s Cure
by seekerofbooks
Summary: Hermione’s up to her ears in homework. It’s third year, and she’s loaded her schedule with classes. Her Time-Turner allows her to take multiple courses at one time. She’s having trouble hiding it from her fellow classmates when something goes wrong— very wrong. Forced to continue use of her damaged Time-Turner, Hermione finds herself thrust into a universe very unlike her own.
1. Chapter One: All Under Control

Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter or The Maze Runner. Don't sue me.

Contains spoilers. If you haven't yet read The Prisoner of Azkaban, The Scorch Trials, or The Death Cure, I don't suggest reading this until you finish them.

Author's note: This is my first fanfiction and my first released work. I'm very excited to receive feedback in the reviews. If you've any suggestions, comment them and I SOLEMNLY SWEAR I'll read them.

Hold on to your butts, 'cause I'm about to spare the lives of my favorite deceased characters.

Chapter One

Hermione had everything under control. Her eyes were bloodshot and her papers slightly scrambled, but she still a strange sense of calm.

She fingered the chain resting below her shirt, careful not to disturb its charm. Her failsafe; beautiful and useful and dangerous. One quick turn could fix her most recent problems— or worsen them. It was all a matter of how she played the game, and she chose to abide by the rules.

 _"Don't use your Time-Turner for personal affairs. It's property of the Ministry and you're only to use it to get to your classes," Professor Mcgonagall had told her. "Don't shake it, or show it off. Certainly don't break it— you will not receive a replacement."_

She'd proudly accepted the trinket, thrilled at the thought of attending multiple classes at the same time.

Soon the girls' dormitory would begin to fill with her schoolmates. Glancing around, she gently pulled the Time Turner over her head and set it on her bed as she began to sift through her trunk. Crookshanks slipped out from under her bed and rubbed up against her leg. Scooping him up, she sat down on her trunk to pet him.

"Crookshanks is so cute!" Lavender Brown called, popping her head through the doorway. Hermione dropped him and scrambled to grab the Time Turner, fighting the urge to scream.

"Oh- oh, yes, he's great," she stuttered, grabbing the chain off of her mattress.

"What's that?" Lavender asked, appearing over her shoulder. Hermione winced.

"Just a trinket of my mother's."

"Let's see it, then."

"Oops," said Hermione, dropping the Time Turner as gently as she could manage. "Looks like it's broken. Sorry."

Lavender raised one eyebrow, shrugged, grabbed her slippers, and left.

As soon as her bouncing ponytail disappeared from view, Hermione fell to her knees and checked the Time Turner for damage.

A spiderweb crack had blossomed across the surface of the glass, so fragile Hermione hesitated to touch it.

She didn't dare use magic to repair it— she couldn't even trust herself on this. She'd have to continue to use it the way it was. It was that or having to give up her extra classes, and she could never surrender them.

She recalled the phrase she'd said to Harry and Ron in her first year. She'd been much more cautious then, and had still managed to get into a spot of trouble. _"Now if you two don't mind, I'm going to bed before either of you come up with another clever idea to get us killed - or worse, expelled."_

Chuckling at the memory, she stood and hung the chain around her neck. A familiar cold prickle arose across her collarbone. Wearing it made the whole situation seem a lot more manageable— after all, it was just a crack.


	2. Chapter Two: The Scorch

Disclaimer: I don't own The Maze Runner or Harry Potter. Don't sue me.

Author's Note: This chapter was so much fun to write! I loved seeing some of my all-time favorite characters interact.

I checked on the story's feedback this morning, and was blown away by how many follows and favorites I received. Thank you all so much!

This is my last irregular update. From this point forward, I'll be posting weekly and bi-weekly.

Enjoy the story!

Chapter Two:

She awoke that next morning with an undeniable feeling of guilt sitting in her stomach, like she was five years old again and had taken cookies from the jar without permission.

The Time Turner had been her responsibility, and she'd cracked it, if not broken it. It had to keep working— it had to! She couldn't accept being a mediocre student in mediocre classes— no offense meant towards Harry and Ron, who were, in truth, average students.

Today she decided to skip breakfast to test out the functions of the cracked Time Turner. The idea of sitting down to a plate of toast and eggs with Ron and Harry appealed to her, though she couldn't handle the idea of leaving her Time Turner in its condition.

"Bye, Parvati," she called out, nearly throwing the girl from the dormitory in her half-frantic state. "Right, Hermione," she muttered to herself, "just a few turns, that's it."

She braced herself for the usual lurch of her stomach, but it didn't come. Sighing, she slumped to the ground. It was probably destroyed. One crack! One tiny crack had pushed it over the edge!

She reached to pull it off, only to receive a surprisingly painful shock, like a bolt of lightning traveling through her, immobilizing each limb. Her eyes flickered into a spiraling darkness as she fought to retain consciousness. Bile rose from her throat and filled her mouth as her eyelids drooped. Unable to hold out, she surrendered to the pain and felt herself shift.

Hermione shuddered as people still as statues fluttered by her, mere snapshots. Soundlessly they slipped by her, leaving another image in their wake.

Suddenly she was launched forward into an image of two boys. Her throat burned with the desire to scream.

Stumbling uncontrollably, she fell between them.

Both boys seemed older than her, not just in years but experiences. A dark-haired boy with a crinkled forehead held a gun, his finger hovering over the trigger as though he couldn't bear to press it. The blond boy opposite him, tall and lanky, had patches of hair missing and dark circles under his eyes. He was screaming something at the other boy, his words thrown so loudly they rang in Hermione's ears, waving a sort of strange weapon at him threateningly.

The dark-haired boy took a step back from her and dropped the gun, but the blond continued to glare. "H'lo," she squeaked, flipping the Time Turner. As their faces faded to dark, she saw the dark-haired boy wipe his eyes and pick the gun back up.

A single hiccup escaped her and she began to sob as more pictures flashed. A boy around her age with a knife wedged in his stomach. A metal sphere where someone's head should be. People with wild eyes and grimy hair. Strangest of all, the dark-haired boy and blond boys talking quietly, flashing knowing looks at each other. She covered her eyes and let out a low moan. Her insides squirmed as though replaced with worms.

Hot, burning vomit escaped her lips as she fell forward, slamming against broiling cement. The fabric of her uniform snagged and tore on a jagged rock. Arms burning, she heaved herself to a sitting position and glanced around.

The sun was oddly bright, hissing as it met her pale skin. The ground of red clay seemed to have baked in the extreme heat as though put into a massive kiln. Ruined buildings, several on fire, accented the barren wasteland. Although she could hear shrieks, there were no people she could see nearby.

She heard movement behind her. "Shut up, you slintheads! It's a Crank!"

"I'm not a Crank," she sniffed. "Go away."

"You heard the Crank," said a boy with Asian features. "Let's move out!"

"Wait!" she called, scrambling to her feet. "Where are you going?"

"Away from this shuckin' place," a boy said. She was alarmed to see that he was the dark-haired boy from earlier.

"Move it, Tommy," said an older-looking boy. She did a double-take. It was the blond boy who'd glared at her; except he had no bald patches, and the circles under his eyes were much less pronounced. "We haven't got time for you to chat up the resident loonies."

"Did your hair grow back?" she asked without thinking.

The blond boy shared a glance with the dark-haired boy. "If we're gonna turn into a shank like her, then we'd better hurry."

"Have you all gone mad?" she exclaimed. "I'm only fourteen! You can't leave me here!" This was an odd situation, even for a witch.

"We don't have time for this, Crank. See you."

"I mean, we won't," the dark-haired boy shrugged. "You'll be dead soon." He turned away from her and started off towards the majority of his group.

"Bye, Crank," the blond boy grinned, strolling off. One of his legs dragged slightly behind the other. Hermione forced herself to jog after him.

"Wait!"

No response.

"Where are we?"

"It's the Scorch, you shank. Even we know that."

"What do you mean? Aren't you from here?"

"She's already gone wacko, huh, Tommy?"

"I have not gone wacko! And if you don't explain what's going on, I'll follow your group anyway!"

"Like I said. Wacko." The blond made a spheric motion with his finger. Crazy.

Hermione rushed up to him and grabbed his arm. "Please! I don't know what's going on!"

"Doesn't it seem a bit weird that she was dumped off here by herself? The other Cranks we've met have come in packs," the dark-haired boy noted.

"Maybe they left her for trying to eat someone."

"Bet WICKED dumped her here as a distraction."

"What's WICKED?"

The blond boy grabbed her collar. "Slim it! We don't have time for this. Tell WICKED that they can shove their plan up their—"

"Honestly! I've no idea what you're talking about! If anyone's wacko, it's you!" She kicked at his bad leg, hitting just below the knee. He yelped and dropped her, clutching at his leg. "Muggles, the lot of you!" she shrieked, stomping on his foot. "Now, listen to me! I'm supposed to be in a large castle somewhere near Scotland. I don't know how or why I'm here, but I blame this!" She held up the Time Turner and shook it at them.

"That's just an hourglass, you shuck-head!" the blond boy she'd kicked yelled.

"We don't want any trouble," said the dark-haired boy.

"Neither do I! But I'll- I'll hurt your friend here if you don't take me with you!" A shiny glint of metal caught her eye and she followed it to find a knife in the blond boy's belt. Snatching it up, she pressed the flat of the blade to his neck like she'd seen people do in movies and tried to suppress her shivers.

"If you do anything, my friend Minho here won't hesitate to jump you," the dark-haired boy threatened, gesturing to the Asian-looking boy who now stood next to him. Muscles rippled up and down his arms.

"I really don't want to slice him up, and I don't think he'd like that much either. Please, take me with you."

The boys frowned. "Fine," she said as nonchalantly as she could, scoring a long but shallow cut down the blond's leg. He grimaced, letting his hand drop to the bubbles of scarlet beginning to surface. "I won't ask again. Will you take me with you?"

The blond boy managed to shake his head at his friends, his eyes wide— _no_.

The muscled Asian boy —Minho— stepped forward. "Drop the knife. We'll bring you with us. But if you try to kill any of us, we're tying you up and dumping you off in the hot sun."

"Deal!" she cried excitedly, handing the knife to him. Glancing down at the boy she'd cut, she knelt next to him on the ground. "Sorry. I've never taken a hostage before! How'd I do?"

"Why would you expect that we'd have taken hostages before?"

"You wanted to leave me alone in the desert!"

"Any reasonable person would've done that. You're really very fortunate that we aren't blessed with loads of common sense. What's your name, Crank?"

"Hermione Granger. And yours?" She extended her hand, and he shook it lightly.

"Newt."

Minho stepped forward. "The other shank you've been talking with is Thomas, and I'm Minho." He glanced at Newt. "Need a bandage, shuck-face?"

"No. There's hardly any blood. Crank here barely knew how to hold that knife."

"Good. We haven't got any."

"What's a Crank?" Hermione burst out. "You keep calling me that."

Minho and Newt exchanged glances.

"These people have been attacking us. Some of them seem sane enough, but most are completely crazy. They've been calling themselves Cranks," Minho clarified.

"They all seemed to have the buggin' Flare on top of all that."

"The Flare?"

"Apparently it's some sort of virus that makes you go completely psycho. Then you die. And it's highly contagious. Real pleasant, I've heard."

"But I don't have it!" she protested. "Or I didn't, before I took you hostage."

"If that's true, why else would you be in the Scorch?"

"Don't ask me! I've no idea what's happening!"

"Even if you didn't have it before we found you," Minho put in, "you probably do now."

"So that's it— I'm going to go crazy and die surrounded by you lot?"

"No; the reason why we're here is because we were promised a cure. We just have to get to some shanky place."

"So I'll be cured too, since you're bringing me with you?"

"I should think so," said Newt. "But who knows? WICKED might just give you the boot."

"Who's wicked?"

"Some sort of shuck organization. We only found out about them ourselves a week or so ago."

"What do they do?"

"They're working towards a cure, or so they claim. Apparently we're an integral part of that, but they won't tell us why," Minho finished, crossing his arms.

"What've you got to do with anything?" Hermione prodded.

"Dunno. They've been screwing with us for years, but we've no idea why."

Years? They were only boys. A few years were a significant chunk of their lives. "How many?"

"No idea. Maybe ten or so, according to Thomas."

She hadn't even known about magic ten years ago, hadn't any friends her age, hadn't any idea what was in store for her. Vaguely she felt herself nodding, her head pounding. "I could do with a bit of Tylenol, if you've got it."

Minho laughed bitterly. "We've barely enough supplies to feed ourselves. Do you really think we have Tylenol?"

"No?" she guessed.

"Good answer." Minho turned away from her and announced a break.

Someone handed her a thin sheet. Their face blurred as she accepted it. Fatigue began to settle in her bones, leaving her dizzy and disoriented. Dropping to the ground, she pulled the linen over her head and felt the intense heat work its way through the cloth. Her breathing slowed in the warmth, the hot air fogging her head as she lost consciousness. It couldn't have been more than two hours since she'd been at Hogwarts, and yet she couldn't keep her eyes open.

Thoughts of Ron and Harry filtered through her mind as Hermione slipped away. Her fingers tightened around the Time Turner, and then she was gone.


	3. Chapter 3: An Unpleasant Stroll

Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter or The Maze Runner. Please don't sue me.

Author's note: I needed Hermione to get to know the Gladers before all the action starts up— this chapter was a good place to do that.

I apologize for the confusion in the last chapter. To clarify, Hermione ended up in the Scorch from the Maze Runner universe, where she met the surviving Gladers.

We've got two reviews (that aren't from me!)- amazing! Thank you for your continued support and feedback!

Chapter Three:

Pictures flashed before her eyes. Snapshots, until she was forcefully shoved inside one. Her fists clenched and her stomach squirmed uncontrollably.

Dark. That's what she saw first. As thick and heavy as rice pudding, sticking to her eyelids and weighing them down.

A sudden flash of light burned across her gaze as a scene came into focus. She felt strangely removed, as though seeing it like a fly on a wall.

Someone lay sprawled on the forest floor, their leg extended. Their hands were folded together behind their head, as if steadying it, and they screamed loudly, deeply; the sheer volume of it caused the ground beneath her feet to quiver. Scarlet leaked through shredded clothes, gleaming on shattered bits of bone. Flesh embedded with twigs and bits of gravel was put on clear display through the torn fabric.

She gagged, unable to pull away. Acid burned at the back of her throat. Digging her nails into the side of her arm, she swallowed.

A boy was yanking the person on the ground to their feet. "C'mon— get up. On my count; one, two…"

The injured person yelped and cried out. "I hate you! I hate you!"

The rescuer snarled. "Wasn't me who got you into this, now, was it? Three!"

Hermione caught a flash of blond hair as the fallen person was yanked up. Screaming and cursing into their sleeve, they draped one arm over the rescuer's shoulder. "Sorry," they mumbled, voice oddly familiar.

"Nothing for you to be sorry for. We'll sort this out, you shank," the rescuer put in with a reassuring smile.

"Slim it. Don't wanna hear that klunk again until we get through the buggin' Doors."

Her eyes widened— it was Newt. "Where are we?" she called. "Did the others go off to scout?"

He didn't answer, didn't look up. Her stomach dropped as she was suddenly yanked backward into the dark.

Tangled in her sheet, she awoke. Her breath caught in her throat as she desperately tried to shake off the dream. "I really am going insane, aren't I?" she muttered, rising unsteadily to her feet and draping the sheet across her head like a hood.

"Yeah, why wouldn't you be?" Thomas stood next to her, one eyebrow raised.

"Not a day ago I was off having fun with…" The names stuck in her throat, refusing to release. "…Harry and Ron, my friends from school."

"There was an outbreak at your school, then?"

"No, I just— okay, sure. Yes, there was," she said unconvincingly. "What about you guys?"

"Dunno. It's not like we were in the outside world or anything, but somehow we still managed to contract it."

"What do you mean, the 'outside world'?"

"Long story."

"I've got time." She wrapped the cloth firmly around her hands like gloves and squinted into the sky.

He hesitated. "They— we called it the Glade. Every month, a boy would arrive in this box with crates of supplies. They'd be disoriented; angry, even. No one had any memory of what came before that. It was as if we had this past life, and it's all there, but locked up tight so we can't get in. There's echoes and fragments, but they're not really ours anymore."

"You'd no idea who you were?"

"We knew our names, but that was about it. Still don't know much more than that." He shrugged, as if this was perfectly normal. "The boys that came before me developed a functioning society, with rules and all that. It maintained order, or so Newt claimed. He was second-in-command," he added, gesturing toward the boy.

"Why didn't you just leave?" she asked, feeling stupid.

"There wasn't exactly a door— I mean, WICKED had gone to the trouble of wiping our memories and sending us in, so it wasn't going to be easy."

Pursing her lips, she kicked at a stray pebble, a cloud of dust rising from the ground.

Thomas continued, "It was a maze. Metal, with massive doors. The pattern would shift every once in a while. Obviously we needed to explore it to get out, so we sent in a few kids to jog around inside a bit— called them Runners. Minho and I were the first to survive a night out there. He got trapped inside when the shuck Doors closed, and I ran in after him."

"Why hadn't anyone been in there for a whole night before?"

"These creatures called Grievers would come out every night— they had stingers, like bees, only more painful. Deadly, if you didn't get the Serum."

She whistled through her teeth. "Sorry, how long ago was this?"

"A week or two, tops."

"How- how long were you in there?" Hermione asked, rubbing at her burning eyes with the back of the cloth.

He pushed his sweat-stick hair off his forehead. "I got sent in later. Second-last, actually." He winced, then started again. "Yeah, got sent in later. I'm told the first kids were shipped up in a big group about two years before I arrived."

"Who was last?" Her lips cracked on the last word, and she swept her tongue across their surface, tasting blood.

Giving a half-shrug, he rummaged through his pack, producing a green apple. Biting into it, he swung the bag back under his shoulder. "My friend," he mumbled through a mouthful of fruit. "What about you? How'd you survive this long?"

She snorted. "Where I come from, life's a bit easier." Thinking of Harry's many encounters with Lord Voldemort, she added, "Not quite paradise, but there isn't exactly a deadly virus spreading, either."

"Sounds nice. I could do with a normal, plague-free world."

"I didn't say it was normal," she cut in. "We just weren't put under the same circumstances."

"Didn't you come from Scotland? Thought they had the Flare there," someone behind her teased. She glanced up. Newt grinned at her, his mouth and eyes the only parts of him visible from under the sheet.

"This Scotland, maybe."

"What do you mean, 'this Scotland'?" He ambled closer, folding his arms across his chest. Hermione forced herself to focus on his face, rather than the leg that couldn't quite keep up. "Has this anything to do with what you were on about yesterday? The shuck hourglass an' all that."

She scratched the nape of her neck, attempting to think of an excuse. "I think- I think I need some water."

"Yeah, okay. Tommy, you can share provisions with her."

Thomas gaped at Newt. "Share? With a Crank?"

"I'm not a Crank," she put in.

"Get over yourself— I'd do it, but she took me as a bloody hostage earlier and I don't much feel like splittinv with her."

That was fair. She had cut him, after all. Part of it excited her— she'd made them afraid of her. Usually people took one glance and couldn't see past the books she stuck her nose into. Here they saw her as something more than that; dangerous, yes, but someone of substance, not to be overlooked.

Thomas grunted, yanking off the pack and handing it to her. "If we're splitting, you'll need to help carry it."

"Works for me," she said, already rummaging through it. Fingers shaking, she unscrewed the cap of a yellow canteen and took small sips of it until her mouth was sufficiently moistened.

"Hope you left some for Tommy," Newt commented over her shoulder.

"Of course I did— what kind of person do you think I am?"

"One who takes hostages," he deadpanned, jerking his thumb towards his leg.

She shook her head, aggravated. As it had to be nearly noon, the sun was becoming almost too hot to bear. The air was warm and dry, almost dusty. With each inhale, it felt as if she was breathing in a mouthful of ash. A steady wind had begun to blow past them, though it only served to make Hermione even warmer.

As food and water supplies decreased, people began holding the packs over their heads as further protection form the sun. Already, her mouth began to dry; her tongue sticking to the roof of her mouth with no liquid to slide it off. Offering the canteen to Thomas, she swung the bag across her shoulders. He took the water and hastily sloshed some onto his face. Streaks of red dirt ran down his cheek, revealing stripes of burnt skin.

Reaching into her pocket for her wand, a fresh wave of panic washed over her. The pocket was empty— she must have left it on the bed. That was stupid of her; even if the Time Turner was functioning properly, she'd still have use for her wand. Tears sprang to her eyes, loosening the grime that had begun to stick to her lids.

Conversations around them dwindled as the others gradually lost the energy to do anything but trudge in. Each step took effort and concentration. Dragging her feet, she took a shuddery breath, hot air filling her lungs.

The broken-down buildings she'd seen on the horizon when she first arrived had grown much closer. Hermione could make out the stone blocks lining smashed windows, though she couldn't see any people on the streets. The city looked deserted; would there be any supplies to replenish their packs?

"See anyone?" Thomas turned to her, brushing his palms together.

She raised her chin toward the buildings. "No. Looks abandoned."

"My thoughts exactly."

"Let's hope we're wrong, then. Maybe they don't come out until night, when it's presumably cooler."

"Good that."

 _[Elapsed time: 8 hours]_

The ground beneath her seemed to sway. Fatigue had taken root inside her, and all she could do was focus on moving forward. _One foot, other foot_ , she repeated over and over. Just a bit longer, Hermione.

The sun had barely slid behind the silhouette of the city when the wind picked up, this time bringing a bit of relief.

Small, controlled fires became visible in the buildings. Her bottom lip quivered at the thought of gathering around the common room fireplace with Harry and Ron, laughing as they shared answers to homework.

It had to have been past midnight when Minho turned to face the group and waved his hand. "We'll reach the city tomorrow, no matter what," he called. "We're nearly there."

Arranging her sheet over her head, she took one last breath before allowing sleep to claim her.


	4. Chapter Four: The Wind

Disclaimer: I don't own The Maze Runner or Harry Potter. For those of you who haven't noticed yet.

Author's note: This chapter was a bit harder to write, as it serves mostly to build tension for the storm and meeting Jorge and Brenda.

Hermione's glimpse into Minho's past was a struggle for me; I needed to write about a defining moment, but how was I to do that if he didn't remember it? This was the best I could think of.

Much of this chapter is canon, excluding Hermione's presence. I hope I strayed far enough for it to be interesting! Next chapter will be more exciting— I promise.

While you wait for the next chapter to come out, you guys should check out the new Mauraders fanfiction by @SherLocked-in-the-1967Impala — it's called A Hundred Thousand Worlds Apart, and it is genuinely amazing.

Thanks for sticking with this story!

Chapter Four

As soon as her eyes shut, she felt herself lurch forward, a familiar churning sensation threatening to bring up her light dinner. Spots of light danced across her field of vision, forcing her to blink. A scene began to take shape before her like strings woven into a tapestry.

Thin tendrils of fog lapped over her shoes, obscuring them. Swirling mist thickened around her, almost hiding the shadow that crept ever nearer. Her breath caught as their features began to come into focus. They remained in the center of the room, their shoes scuffing against the floor.

Hermione studied his face— clean, but twisted with a mask of pure terror. "Minho!" Clapping a hand to her mouth, she almost sobbed with relief. Yes, it was definitely Minho, his hair spiked and his brow furrowed. His eyes slid across her, through her, off to the right. Following his gaze, her eyes found a sort of large container. Steel, with a seam along one side and hinges on the other.

The fog began to dissipate, revealing a widening crack in the front. A door.

What burst through the crack chased away whatever shred of common sense she was clinging to.

Its shape was almost fluid, twisting and and slimy and horribly wet. Patchy spots of hair dotted its massive body. Appendages that looked alarmingly like metal flashed and flailed. Working its way free of the pod, it crashed to the floor, revealing itself to be about the size of a cow.

Eerie quiet washed over her, shutting off her thoughts. Adrenaline coursed through her, allowing one last primitive instinct to reach her. "Run!" she cried, ducking her head as though rushing into battle. Minho didn't move, didn't acknowledge her. His eyes fell blankly on her, as though she were nothing more than air. It was then that she noticed he was bound to a chair, his wrists tied together with a strip of cloth. His feet rammed against the ground and panic seemed to set in. Hermione could almost hear the thoughts echoing through him— _Escape the chair or you die_.

A flash of metal whizzed by her and she stumbled to the ground, her face slamming into concrete. Shrieks echoes behind her. She turned to find Minho thrashing, throwing his weight around to move the chair. Rising to her feet, she hurried over to him. She gave a firm yank on the back of his chair— nothing. Her hands slid through the wood as though she was air.

The creature drew closer. Hermione felt bolted in place, stuck, even as her mind screamed to run.

Then the thing was upon them, and everything rushed back.

Her eyes caught a glint of light, and she began to stir. The now-familiar feeling of a rough sheet against her cheek greeted her.

Her shin gave a groan of pain as she pulled herself upright, draping the sheet over her head once more. Rubbing the sleep from her eyes, she jogged unsteadily over to Thomas, whose sheet was nowhere to be seen. Wind tugged harshly at her own, threatening to rip it from her hands.

His eyes were fastened on the sky, now swelling with heavy black clouds. "Rain," he mumbled.

"Has to be," Hermione replied, surprised at the dryness of her throat. Her mouth watered at the memory of pumpkin juice and tea.

The city that had seemed so far away yesterday now looked over them, casting a shadow across the cracking ground.

Minho fought against the wind to talk to them, raising his voice so loudly Hermione was sure the others could hear. "Hurry and eat— we gotta get going. Maybe find a place to hide before we're soaked."

Thomas pushed back his hair. "What if we get there and a bunch of Cranks try to kill us?"

"Then we'll fight 'em!" His eyes narrowed. "What else you wanna do? Sit here and slowly starve to death?"

Hermione nodded her agreement. "Minho's right. We should go now, while we've still strength to continue."

"All right," Thomas shrugged. "Let's go. I'll eat one of those granola things while we walk."

It took only minutes to gather up the supplies from their makeshift campsite. Her eyes set on the cityscape before her, Hermione steeled herself for what could lie ahead.

They were only a few miles away from reaching the nearest building when they stumbled upon an old man lying on his back, swaddled up in blankets.

Upon Minho's command, they formed a tight circle around him, staring down with unease.

Next to her, she heard Thomas issue a light gasp as they took in the man's face. Ancient, cracked skin, his features only craters across the surface. Tanned beyond anyone she'd seen before. Scabs and open sores dotted the top of his head, reminding her of the scene —future, most likely— she'd caught of Newt fighting with Thomas.

The man was clearly alive, taking massive gulps of air. His eyes stared at the sky without seeing it, as though he were just waiting to die.

"Hey! Old man!" Minho shouted. "What're you doing out here?" The wind slamming into the side of her head nearly obscured his words. Thomas slid past her and knelt down next to the man.

"Sir?" he asked, much more quietly than Minho, "Mister?" Pausing, he added, "Can you hear me? Can you talk?"

The man blinked slowly, opting to remain silent. Newt shrugged out of the circle and squatted down next to Thomas. "This guy's a bloody gold mine if we can get him to talk about the city. Looks harmless, probably knows what to expect when we get in there."

Thomas whispered something back.

"Keep trying," Minho put in loudly. "You're officially our foreign ambassador, Thomas. Get the dude to open up and tell us about the good ol' days."

"Okay," Thomas replied, showing hints of a smile. He leaned closer to the man, hovering just over his head. Hermione bit down hard on her thumbnail— this seemed fishy. "Sir? We really need you help! We need you to tell us if the city is safe to enter. We can carry you there if you need help yourself. Sir? Sir!"

The man raised his head to look at the boy, who brightened and began speaking more rapidly. "My name's Thomas. These are my friends. We've been walking through the desert for a few days, and we need more food and water. Do you think we…" He trailed off, furrowing his brow. "We won't hurt you. We're… we're the good guys. But we'd really appreciate it if—"

The man's arm shot out from between the blankets, clasping Thomas' wrist, whose face had paled as he glanced around the circle. "Let go!" Thomas yelled suddenly. "Get your hand off me!" The man shook his head slowly, his lips parting. Thomas bent over to catch the whisper that escaped them. "What'd you say?"

The man leaned into him, muttering again into Thomas' ear.

"Once more, please!"

"Storm coming… terror… brings out… stay away… bad people," the man croaked loudly enough for even Hermione to hear. Shooting upwards, the man released Thomas and began to shriek. "Storm! Storm! Storm!" He repeated the word over and over again in a voice that chilled Hermione to the bone. Thomas scooted on his butt to flee as Minho waved his arms. _Go_. They scurried away as the wind began to pick up speed, whirling and smacking against them.

Catching a last glimpse of the man, Hermione turned to find him curled up in the fetal position, blankets stolen by the wind.

As they packed together like sardines, Minho pointed at the city and broke into a dead run. The wind yanked at her shirt as she fell in with the others, the clouds deepening in color as they thickened. Vibrant purple gave way to a solid black sky, painting despair across the horizon.

Thomas began jogging behind her, his steady pace urging her to continue on.

 _Run, Hermione_ , she begged herself. And as her calves burned with effort, she felt a last surge of energy rush to her.


	5. Chapter Five: The Storm

Disclaimer: I don't own The Maze Runner or Harry Potter. Please don't sue me.

Author's note: Yay, plot development! I am fairly pleased with the changes in canon I've begun to set up.

Out of curiousity, who's your favorite deceased character from The Maze Runner? I can save more than just my favorites!

Until next week,

seekerofbooks

Chapter Five: The Storm

The city was just out of reach now— so close Hermione felt as if she could reach out and touch it. The weather conditions had turned from uncomfortable to unbearable, with the dust and sand thickening into fog. The kids around her kept wiping crust from their eyes, scrubbing so hard they turned red. The wind turned sharper, stabbing at her with unprecedented ferocity.

Rubble flew by them, each piece seeming bigger as it whizzed past her head. Bits of paper. Pebbles. The occasional tree branch.

A sudden flash of light in her peripheral vision made her whip her head around. "What was that?" she coughed, covering the cloth over her mouth. No one had had a chance to answer when the sky exploded in bursts of fire. Thunder echoed through her ears, leaving a terrible ringing sensation.

She continued to run for lack of a better plan. The ground swayed and shook as she stumbled toward the outline of the nearest building. People around her lost their footing on rocks, but she was too shaken to even process that she wasn't alone.

A shudder of light just in front of her sent Hermione reeling backward, her vision flickering with sight almost lost.

She managed to shove forward a few steps, blinking the dark from her eyes. A wall of flames blocked her path, and she hurriedly scooped up a handful of dust to put it out. Gasping for a breath of air among the smoke, she fell to her knees and crawled several feet. Another crash of lightning sent her scrambling to her feet, fueled by adrenaline. The first building was now mere paces ahead of her.

Ducking inside, she dropped to the ground, curling into a tiny ball. A few other kids she didn't know the name of had filtered inside before her, each one trembling.

She heard the first drop of rain just as Newt and Thomas rushed in, dragging along the body of someone who'd obviously been struck with lightning. Clothes charcoaled but not destroyed, patches of skin turned ruby-red— definitely burned.

The rain began to fall in bucketfuls, the downpour so heavy that it appeared to be a single sheet of water.

Thomas and Newt set the body down in a corner, where the person pulled in their shoulder and set their head between their knees. Hermione took a tentative step toward them, brow furrowed. Thomas lifted his head towards her, revealing gray eyes so clouded they almost looked black. Sliding down against the wall, Newt set himself gently on the ground.

"It's Minho," Thomas said with a jerk of his thumb. "Slinthead got himself struck by lightning."

"Slim it," the boy groaned from the floor. The corner's of Newt's mouth twitched up at the comment. Thomas sank down to the floor, folding his arms across his chest.

"What now?" Hermione prodded, awkwardly dropping to the ground. "We've made it to the city— how much longer do you expect we'll need to travel?"

Newt picked at a dry spot on his cheek. "Dunno. It's not like WICKED just flat-out told us where to go."

Lacing her fingers together and setting them on her lap, she shrugged. "You'd think they'd give you a bit more help."

"What are you getting at?" Newt straightened his posture so as to better glower over her. She couldn't contain a small chuckle; it was a bit like Ron getting angsty with her and Harry— it was so hard to take him seriously, but she felt bad for laughing.

"Nothing, nothing. Only that you're kids, is all."

"They dumped us off in a shuckin' wasteland! D'you really think they'd go easy on us based off what you've seen?" His face grew very red, similar in color to a tomato.

"Shut up!" Minho called suddenly. "I'm trying to sleep, you slintheads."

"Sorry," she said quickly, scurrying away. The sound of raindrops on the roof was becoming stronger now, drowning out all other noise. She let her eyes close for a moment, taking in a deep breath. Warm, sticky air flooded her nose and mouth.

Allowing herself to get comfortable, she tucked her hands under her head and curled into a ball on the floor, her knees pressed almost to her chin.

 _[Elapse time: 5 hours]_

The next time she opened her eyes, light had begun to filter inside, revealing crooked floorboards heavily lined with cracks. The other members of their party had started to stir, rubbing sleep from their eyes and murmuring to each other in hushed, low voices. Thomas and Newt were among them, their faces drawn and pained.

"Sometimes I wonder," Thomas was mumbling.

"Wonder what?"

"If being alive matters. If being dead might be a lot easier."

Something flickered across Newt's face. "Please. I don't believe for one second you really think that."

Hermione approached them, her feet creaking on the old wooden boards. Thomas flinched.

"Should put a bell on you," Newt put in wearily, "so you're not givin' me a bloody heart attack every time you move."

Hermione forced a smile. "Maybe."

A groan issued from below them. "Oh man," Minho grieved. "I'm shucked. I'm shocked for good."

"How bad is it?" Newt asked, kneeling next to him. Minho pulled himself to a sitting position rather than answering, yelping with every movement. Although his clothes had been charcoaled, he only seemed to have a few burns, and somehow still had all his hair.

"Can't be too bad if you can do that," Thomas said, brushing his palms against his pants.

"Shuck it," Minho retorted. "I'm tougher than nails. I could kick you pony-lovin' butt with twice this pain."

Thomas gave a half-shrug. "I do love ponies. Wish I could eat one right now."

Hermione's stomach churned at the thought— disgusting.

"Was that a joke?" Minho laughed. "Did Thomas the boring slinthead actually make a joke?"

Hopefully, Hermione grumbled internally.

"I think he did," Newt responded with a grin.

Thomas threw his hands up. "I'm a funny guy."

"Yeah, you are." Minho glanced around, his interest slipping. His lips formed the shape of numbers; one, two…

"How many?" Thomas asked after a moment's pause.

"Eleven," Newt said. "Only eleven."

"Six died in the storm, then?" Minho inclined his head toward the door. "Seven?"

"Jack's missing, and Winston never had a chance." Newt flicked a speck of dirt from under his nail, glaring at Minho. "I don't see Stan or Tim, either. What about them?"

"Whoa, whoa, whoa," Minho shushed him, holding his palms up towards Newt. "Slim it nice and calm, brother. I didn't ask to be the shuck leader. You wanna cry all day about what's happened, fine. But a leader can't afford to to do that. A leader has to focus on what's to come and how best to protect who's still alive."

Newt balled his fists, his brow furrowing. "Well, guess that's why you got the job, then." The anger suddenly drained from his face, and he shook his head. "Whatever. Seriously, sorry. I just…"

"Yeah, I'm sorry, too. Don't worry about it." Minho rolled his eyes, though Newt was too busy wallowing in shame to notice. Another boy —she was fairly certain his name was Aris— scooted over to talk with them.

"You guys ever seen anything like that before?"

"Never in my life," Hermione moaned. "Couldn't have been natural."

"Bet it was WICKED," Newt said, pulling his knees into his chest. "Just another of their games."

"Everything's orchestrated by them, huh?" Thomas added absentmindedly, scratching a scab off his elbow.

Aris shrugged. "Probably."

A sudden wet gurgle emanated across the room. Minho raised a hand. "That was me, guys. Sorry."

"We need food," decided Thomas. "We'll have to poke around for some soon."

"Oh god, yes," Aris mumbled. "I could really go for some food right about now."

"Food?" A creak in the floorboards above them sent every head leaning upwards. A flash of gray cloth whizzed by them, leaping from the remnants of the third floor. He flipped end over end before rolling into a front tuck and stopping a few paces in front of Hermione.

Unfolding his legs, he rose before them. "My name is Jorge," he smiled with arms outstretched. "And I'm the Crank who rules this place."


	6. Chapter Six: Jorge

Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter or The Maze Runner. Please don't sue me. I am but a humble fanfiction writer.

Author's note: Whew, this was a harder one. I modified a few lines and am already working on shifting the outcome, but _man_ , it's slow work.

This took longer than it usually does, I know, but I'm just glad to have this scene over and done with.

How would you guys feel about a time skip? Not the whole book, but long enough that I can start getting into the more important plot points. The parts of the story set in the Scorch Trials serve mostly to allow Hermione and the surviving Gladers to become friends, and for her to begin to understand this world. The major changes will take place in the Death Cure, and I'm just so excited to get to that.

In any case, here's chapter six!

Chapter Six: Jorge

A rush of heat swept over her, filling her head with fog. Next to her, she felt Newt stiffen, his shoulders tensing.

"You people forget how to talk?" Jorge asked, a slow smile sliding across his face. "Or you just scared of the Cranks? Scared we'll pull you to the ground and eat your eyeballs out? Mmm, tasty. I love a good eyeball when the grub's runnin' short. Tastes like undercooked eggs."

Minho crossed his arms, doing an amazing job of masking his pain. "You admit you're a Crank? That you're freaking crazy?"

Hermione took a step forward. "Shut up," she heard herself say to Minho. "Let's just… let's just hear him out."

Jorge's hand twitched as he cupped it against his chin. "Tu amiga es inteligente," he said. "Got more brains than you, anyway."

"How many of you are here?" Newt asked suddenly.

"How many?" Jorge laughed, his eyes lighting up with mirth. "How many Cranks? We're all Cranks around here, hermano."

"That's not what I meant and you know it," Newt retorted.

Jorge began to pace about the room, his steps long and even. "Lot of things you people need to understand about how things work in this city. About the Cranks and WICKED, about the government, about why they left us here to rot in our disease, go completely and utterly insane. About how there's different levels of the Flare. About how it's too late for you— the ill is gonna catch ya if it hasn't already."

Minho scoffed. "We've all got it. That's why we're here."

Jorge inhaled sharply. "I wouldn't take that tone. You're- you're making me angry, and I don't think your friends would want for me to be angry."

Hermione shook her head emphatically at Minho. Drop it, she tried to mouth. He clearly didn't see.

"Why? Unless that lightning storm fried my retinas, I'd say that there's eleven of us and one of you. You should be worried about making us mad, buddy."

"You didn't just say that to me, did you? Please tell me you didn't just speak to me like a dog. You have ten seconds to apologize."

Minho looked up at Jorge, his mouth twisted into a defiant smirk.

"One. Two," Jorge counted, his hand twitching into a fist. "Three. Four. Five."

"Do it!" Thomas yelled out of the blue, panic displayed across his face.

"Six. Seven." Jorge's voice began to swell in volume, and any remaining arrogance slid from Minho's face. "Eight. Nine."

"I'm sorry," Minho said in a monotonous voice, void of emotion.

"I don't think you meant that." Jorge lunged across the room, swiftly kicking the boy in the leg. A cry of pain escaped Minho as he fell to the ground— Jorge must have caught him in a burnt spot. "Say it with meaning, hermano." When no response came, Jorge reared back and struck Minho twice more. "Say it with meaning!" the Crank screamed, his face laced with rage.

"I'm sorry," the boy choked between heavy breaths. Jorge smiled, pleased with the humiliation he'd inflicted.

Hermione caught a glimpse of Minho as he leapt from the floor and slammed his fist into the Crank's stomach. A stream of foul language Hermione had never heard before escaped his mouth as he trapped Jorge beneath him and began to punch.

"Minho, stop!" Thomas yelled, scrambling to pull him off Jorge. "There's more of them up there! You have to stop! They'll kill you! They'll kill all of us!"

Jorge rose unsteadily to his feet. "Right you are, boy." Ropes dropped from above them, allowing a mass of people to slide down them to the floor.

Minho shook himself free from Thomas' grip. "Holy shuckin' klunk."

"You buggin' said it," Newt added, biting his nail.

"Should've listened to your friend," Jorge said with a smirk. He spread his arms, as though demonstrating to them the sheer size of his army.

Behind him stood fifteen or so Cranks, each tattered and filthy. People of all ages clutched dirty-looking weapons from the pockets of their ruined clothes. Curved, rusty knives. Machetes. Fragments of glass that shone scarlet. A young girl, only ten or so, held a splintered shovel, its metal scoop snapped and sharpened into jagged teeth.

"Listen," Thomas began, desperation already flooding his voice. "There's something about us. We're not just random shanks who showed up on your doorstep. We're valuable. Alive, not dead."

The anger glinting on Jorge's face melted away, revealing a spark of curiosity. "What's a shank?"

A stifled laugh shoved from between Thomas' lips, the sound so hysterical and chilling that Hermione longed to curl into a ball and sob until it had finished. "You and me," the boy continued. "Ten minutes. Alone. That's all I ask. Bring all the weapons you want."

Jorge snorted, his mouth twisting. "Ten minutes. That's all. The rest of you, stay here. If I give the word, let the Death games begin." Holding out a hand to Thomas, he pushed through a door and slid into the shadowed hall.

"Ten minutes," Thomas repeated, slipping inside behind him.

Hermione sincerely hoped that Thomas knew what he was doing.


	7. Chapter Seven: The Bargain

Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter or The Maze Runner, unfortunately. Please refrain from suing me.

Author's Note: If you're still reading this story, you have no idea how grateful I am. It's been a busy couple of months, and I am so, _so_ incredibly sorry for not updating. While this chapter may be short, just know that I have plans to keep writing.

In other news, I've begun a novel! I'm 20,000 words in and it is exhilarating — but also very draining. I hope you'll consider reading it if I'm able to publish it.

In this chapter, I began to stray a bit further from canon; changing interactions and shifting characters.

Please enjoy the story!

Thomas pulled the door open, his eyes darting about nervously.

She grabbed his arm as he neared. "What did you bargain?"

"Everything should work out," he said simply, pulling free from her grasp. "You just have to trust me. Please."

Hermione shrugged, pushing down a wave of fear. "It's not as if I've any other options."

She slipped back into their ever-shrinking cluster of travelers, ducking her head away from the Cranks.

Jorge brushed his hands together, a slow smile spreading across his face. Whatever Thomas had promised him, it was clearly valuable. "You kicked me," he smirked, turning toward Minho. "And you have no remorse. But you will, soon."

"Doubt it," Minho simpered, folding his arms across his chest. "I stand by my actions."

Drop it, Hermione wanted to scream at him, her hands balling into fists.

Jorge's hands drifted to the knives strapped to his belt. He chuckled, running a fingertip across a dirtied blade. "A shame," he smiled. "I'd have been merciful."

Minho tilted his chin toward the ceiling. "Would you?"

The Cranks hissed at him, baring their teeth and yelling.

"You'll pay!" a balding man cried, wiping a slick of sweat from his forehead. "We'll all see to it."

Jorge held up a hand. "I've got this one, mis amigos. I want to make him beg."

Minho staggered to his feet. "You won't get so much as a word from me."

He laughed, the hollow sound echoing throughout the room. "Brenda, grab them. It's chop time."

A young, pretty girl stepped from the mass of Cranks. Her clothes were dust-stained but intact, and her weapon —a small knife— had been wrapped in leather and looped through her belt.

"You got it," she said, snapping her fingers. "Move," Brenda added, giving Newt a shove as the others began to file after Jorge.

Hermione pursed her lips and glared at Thomas.

He didn't make eye contact with her, keeping his line of sight set straight in front of him.

They pushed into a large wooden building, its sides etched with the remains of peeling white paint.

"Sit," Jorge commanded, pointing to the floor.

Hermione folded her legs, gently lowering herself to the ground.

Brenda disappeared behind a corner, Jorge following after her.

When they returned, their arms were full of cans.

"Finally, some shuckin' food," Minho breathed.


	8. Chapter Eight: Paradise

Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter or The Maze Runner, unfortunately. Don't sue me.

Author's Note: Yay, Chapter Eight! This was such a fun interaction to write— I feel like these characters would really get along.

As I was re-reading The Scorch Trials and scanning for details, it struck me how dirty everything in the Crank town must have been. There was no way to dispose of waste, and certainly no public services.

Frankly, it's a miracle there was any order there at all.

Leave a suggestion for any scenes you might be interest in reading!

Enjoy the chapter!

Chapter Eight

The cans were slightly rusted, Hermione noticed, examining a spoonful of beans. "Are these expired?" she dared to ask.

A smirk tugged at the corner of Brenda's lips as she settled down beside Thomas. "As if you could afford to care."

That was fair. Hermione's hand shook as she carefully opened her mouth and dropped the contents of the spoon inside.

It tasted wet, somehow— lacking in flavor, it was simply a glob of bland chunks.

She forced herself to swallow, pushing aside the idea of food poisoning.

There were sausages being passed around as well, but she doubted they'd been refrigerated and had likely spoiled.

When her spoon scraped the bottom of the can, she set it on the floor in front of her.

"Can't say I loved the food," Newt said, nudging her shoulder, "but it's better than nothing."

Hermione nodded, twirling the spoon around her empty can.

"Doing alright, Crank?" he prodded, placing his finished meal beside hers. "You're quiet, for once."

She gave a half-shrug, staring into the floorboards. "I'm fine, considering we're sitting in a disease-ridden pigsty, eating out of rusted metal cans, and traveling miles in the desert."

He put a hand on her shoulder. "Welcome to paradise."

A laugh pulled free from her throat, dark and rasping. "I'm never going home, am I?"

Newt didn't respond immediately, his brow furrowing. "It's doubtful we'll even survive long enough to get out of here," he said harshly.

She leaned her back against the nearest wall. "You're probably right."

"I usually am." Newt tried to smile, wrapping his arms around his knees. "But it only means we have to try harder. As far as Tommy's concerned, we have two options; for here, or get out. Get to freedom."

"Do you want to make it?"

He frowned, scratching the back of his neck. "It's not exactly a choice."

"That's not what I asked."

Newt exhaled sharply, setting his head against the wall. "I know it isn't."

Hermione allowed a sigh to escape her lips. "This place is like a bundle of my worst fears all set in a creepy deserted town. Not a great combination."

He shrugged. "It just gets better and better."

She held up her empty can in a toast. "To an ever-unfolding situation."


End file.
